


A Girl's Best

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Case, Charlie Lives, F/F, Heist, Rowena Lives, SPN Rare Ships Creation Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: Stealing a cursed diamond with the Winchesters: it’d be just like a heist movie if Rowena wasn’t along for the ride and being distractingly annoying.Not sexy. Annoying. Yeah.





	A Girl's Best

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 13 of the SPN Rare Ships Creation Challenge, for the prompt "Diamond." Warning: contains ridiculous, probably-inaccurate heist-movie hacking.

“Hurry it up, will ya, Charlie? ‘S cold as a witch’s tit out here.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

“Yeesh, I’m not talking about you. It’s a figure of speech.”

“And you’ll find a new one if you don’t want to wake up saying ‘ribbit’.”

Charlie hunches over the screen in front of her, doing her best to tune out Dean and Rowena’s bickering. “Hold on, guys,” she says, as her password cracker ticks through its guesses. “Almost got it.” 

“Take your time, dear. I find the temperature rather bracing.” Charlie’s already gotten into the museum’s CCTV, and on the smaller screen to her right, Rowena runs a hand down the sleeve of her fur coat. The image is a little blurry, but Charlie’s pretty sure she’s looking right up at the security camera. Showing off, or teasing her, or more likely both. She’s already proven to have a hell of a gift for driving Charlie crazy, and not in a good way.

So Charlie ignores her as best she can. “I’m in,” she announces, the password cracker finally doing its work. With a couple more swift keystrokes, the side door is sliding open. She does the same with the door on the far side of the building, and Sam lets himself in and acknowledges her with a quick wave in the direction of his nearest security camera.

“Okay,” she says. “The display room you’re looking for is right in the middle of the building. Couple sets of doors in the way, but I should be able to get those open without any trouble. There’s a corridor about a hundred yards ahead of you—Dean and Rowena, it’s on your right. Sam, it’s—oh, crap.”

“What it is?” Sam asks—and at the same time, Dean says, “Was that an ‘oh crap’? I knew I had a bad feeling about this,” and Rowena protests, “Don’t look at me like that. Whatever trouble the giant’s got himself into, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah, right,” snorts Dean. “Like you and trouble are ever far apart.”

“I was out, I’ll have you know. Remind me again why I agreed to help you in this _stupid_ enterprise?” 

Honestly, Charlie’s been wondering that herself. Rowena’s only ever helped them out under duress—or when she’s going to end up as dead as the rest of them if they fail. Honestly, Charlie wasn’t exactly thrilled when she heard she was gonna have to deal with the recruiting arm of the Black Magic Brigade again—but Rowena’s been pretty quiet on that score so far. Small mercies.

“Security guard,” Charlie cuts in, before the argument can get going again. “Headed in your direction, Sam. Three o’clock.”

“Yeah, I see him. Hold on.” Sam tucks his earpiece out of sight and gives the approaching guard a wave, looking as unthreatening as he can—which honestly isn’t much, but at least he’s trying. “Uh, excuse me? I guess I fell asleep on one of the benches and now I can’t find my way out. Can you help me?”

On the other screen, Dean and Rowena make their way toward the exhibit room, Dean checking around the corners, gun at the ready, and Rowena strolling along, fur-draped, in his wake, like she’s the queen of somewhere and he’s her bodyguard. 

Charlie makes a face and thanks her lucky stars she didn’t blurt _that_ thought out loud. She kinda doubts Dean would appreciate it.

“Okay,” she tells them, “the diamond’s up ahead. Doors opening in three, two…” She hits the final key. “Now.”

The double doors slide open, and she flips to the feed from one of the cameras inside the display room. In her earpiece, she hears Dean’s low whistle; Rowena’s slow exhale. She can’t help staring herself, just for a moment. 

There are just a few emergency lights permanently on in the room, but the intricately-cut diamond on its display stand seems to throw the light back magnified, like there’s a blue fire burning somewhere inside the walnut-size stone. Charlie imagines the weight of it in her hand… wonders whether it would be cool to the touch, or warm from the light that burns within it…

She blinks hard. Apparently whoever told them the diamond had a weird power over people wasn’t lying.

On the screen, Dean stands in the middle of the room staring at it, his gun gone slack in his grip. Rowena sheds her fur coat and places her hands on her narrow hips, the emergency lights making her sequins shimmer faintly in the dark. (Seriously, who wears a sparkly cocktail dress to a diamond heist?) “My,” she murmurs, “you are a beauty, aren’t you?”

Her voice is a purr in Charlie’s ear, and she glances upward, somehow intuiting from which of the half-a-dozen security cameras Charlie’s watching the feed. Charlie swallows and sits up in her chair, feeling herself flush. It’s lucky Rowena can’t see her face right now. She hopes.

“We don’t have time to stand around admiring pretty rocks,” she says, aiming for stern but sounding kind of wobbly. “You guys need to grab it and get out.”

“It wasn’t the rock I was admiring,” Rowena tells her, lifting an eyebrow, and Charlie stutters a little. “That binding curse is _exquisite_ ,” she goes on, then, and turns back to the diamond. “I’m a little jealous.”

“Can you undo it?” Dean cuts in, shaking himself out of his trance, and Rowena gives him what Charlie assumes is a withering look.

“Who d’you think you’re talking to? Of course I can undo it.”

“So get to work. We ain’t got all night. Sammy, you lost the guard yet?”

Charlie switches her gaze back to the other screen, where Sam’s backing away from the guard, hands still held up in his best _not a threat_ pose. “I just want to get home,” he says, voice pleading, but the guard isn’t buying it and he reaches for his gun.

There’s a freestanding _Closed for Cleaning_ sign in front of one of the doors off the corridor, and as the guard reaches for his gun, Sam lunges for the sign. Smart: if he’d gone for his own weapon, there’s no guarantee he would’ve been quickest on the draw, and that could have gotten pretty nasty pretty fast. Instead the guard fumbles, taken by surprise, and before he can regain his grip on his weapon, Sam swings the sign at his head and he goes down like a ton of bricks.

Charlie lets out a sigh of relief and turns back to the other screen. Rowena’s chanting something, her hands raised over the blue diamond as Dean covers her back. Golden threads of magic disentangle themselves from around the gem at her command, their light catching on the edges of her silhouette, picking out the red of her hair and making her look like a human flame. Charlie gets caught up staring at her for a moment, the whole scene like something off of the cover of a fantasy novel. 

Then Sam comes running into the room, skids to a halt, looking at something in his hand, and announces, “Oh, crap.”

Dean frowns at him. “What? Where’s the security guard?”

“Cleaning cupboard.” Sam raises his hand, brandishing something that Charlie can’t quite make out on the screen. “I got the key. And his radio. Sounds like his buddy’s on the way over.”

“You hear that?” Dean tosses over his shoulder at Rowena. “We gotta get going.”

“Magic can’t be hurried,” she tells him placidly, and goes back to her unweaving.

Dean snorts. “Hope you’re ready to turn this guy into a frog, then, cos I’m pretty sure we ain’t getting a head-start.” He turns toward the double doors, levelling his gun at the entrance.

Sam glances back once at Rowena before joining him. “Don’t take that literally,” he warns. “No amphibians.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Rowena shoots back, and Sam rolls his eyes.

There’s a flicker of movement on one of the lower screens: a camera feed from the south corridor. A security guard, armed and running; then another.

“You’ve got company,” Charlie says. “Two of them.”

“Crap.” Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the entrance. The guards are getting closer—just a couple turns in the corridor before they get there. Charlie’s heartbeat pounds in her ears.

In the blink of an eye, the golden threads surrounding the diamond disappear, as though Rowena’s vacuumed them all up into the palm of her hand. She glances over her shoulder. “Now would be a good time for that key, Samuel,” she says, as though she’s the one who’s been kept waiting.

Sam refrains from answering, just edges his way around her, keeping one eye on the door. He opens the case, but then hesitates a moment, fingertips hovering over the diamond as though he’s expecting it to burn him. 

Charlie can’t say she blames him. The lore about the curse suggests anyone who possesses it, even temporarily, comes to a sticky end. Trusting that it won’t kill him involves trusting that Rowena’s done what she said she would, because none of them knows enough about magic to figure that out from watching her.

On the screen, Rowena tosses her head, and Charlie can imagine her theatrical eyeroll. “I thought we were on a schedule here?” She reaches one dainty hand toward the stone. “Honestly, if you’re afraid it’s going to bite, I’ll—”

Sam plucks the diamond off of its display stand before she can touch it. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Rowena pulls her hand back into her side. “Then let’s go.” She pulls her fur coat back on in an easy swirl, and they’re gone, out the side door and racing away before the guards make it to the diamond room.

In her chair, Charlie punches the air, remembering the others have their communicators in just in time to stop herself letting out a whoop. “Holy crap,” she says. “Guys. We’re _jewel thieves_.” 

Dean gives a snort of amusement. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

And that, Charlie thinks, feels pretty fucking cool.

 

\----

 

Rowena accompanies them back to the bunker, at Sam and Dean’s insistence that she needs to stick around until they’re sure the curse is really gone. To Charlie’s—well, everyone’s—surprise, she tags along with minimal complaining, settling herself in the backseat of the Impala with her hands folded regally in her lap. A couple times, Charlie catches Rowena looking at her sideways, her expression sliced into segments of streetlight and shadow, and feels herself flush again. Then she sits up straighter and presses herself closer to the window.

Back at the bunker, they sit around the table while Sam digs out a Men of Letters curse box to lock away the blue diamond, just in case. Rowena watches him, eagle-eyed, as he does it; but she says nothing, and accepts a tumbler of whiskey with a smile that’s a little less sharp-edged than usual when Dean announces they’ve all earned a drink.

Charlie sips at hers, the smoky taste of the Men of Letters’ fancy Scotch warming her insides. It’s nice, but her head’s buzzing, her eyes ache from the hours spent hunched over a screen, and there’s a headache starting to throb at the base of her skull. She looks at Dean, at Sam, reads the titles of the old books lining the shelves—anywhere but at Rowena. 

At least, until Rowena raises her glass to the light, eyeing the contents critically, and says, “This is perfectly nice, I’ll give it that. But it’s not quite…”

Dean throws her a disgruntled look. “Hey, we coulda put you in the dungeon. Don’t complain about the hospitality.”

Rowena gives a one-shouldered shrug and drains her glass. “I wasn’t,” she says. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always thought it was proper to bring a gift.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Like you’ve ever brought anything but sarcasm and double-crossings,” he says, but Rowena reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and pulls out an intricately-engraved little flask.

She unscrews the top and takes a delicate sniff of the contents. “ _That_ ’s more like it. Real Scotch.”

“Sure,” says Dean. “That’s not poison at all.”

Rowena tuts. “Where’s the trust?” she says, and pours a decent-sized measure into her own glass. She sips, and closes her eyes in bliss for a moment—then opens them and fixes Dean with a look. “See?” she says. “I can be generous.” 

It sounds like a challenge—and for a brief, insane moment, Charlie wonders what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that look.

There’s a second’s pause. Then Dean shrugs, finishes what’s in his glass and holds it out. Rowena pours him a couple fingers, smiling like the cat that got the cream. Then she turns to Sam. 

“Can I tempt you?” she asks.

Sam makes an uncomfortable face. “Uh,” he says. “Actually, I think I’m gonna head to bed.” He rolls his shoulder and winces. “Guess I did something to my shoulder when I knocked out that guard. I’m gonna take a couple Tylenol, and—yeah.”

Rowena lifts an eyebrow as he gets to his feet and retreats in the direction of the bedrooms. “Anyone would think you boys didn’t like my company,” she says, not really sounding too put out about it. Then she turns to Charlie. “How about the girls? Care for a wee dram, dear?”

Caught in her catlike gaze, Charlie licks her lips nervously. “Uh,” she says, eloquently. “I.”

“Yes?”

“I’m kinda getting a headache.” She turns her glass between her hands. “I’m probably just gonna finish this and go crash out, too.”

Rowena shrugs. “Suit yourself,” she says, and pours herself a drop more whiskey.

 

\----

 

It’s dark in the corridor leading down to the guest rooms, but Charlie doesn’t hunt for the light switch, figuring she’d rather not wake Sam up if he really does need the sleep and going to bed wasn’t an excuse to avoid Rowena. Her head’s throbbing in earnest now, and she’s tired enough that if she was at her own place, she’d probably just kick off her shoes and collapse on top of the covers. But she isn’t, so she brushes her teeth and splashes water on her face, and changes into the oversized Marvel t-shirt that she packed instead of pajamas before crawling under the covers.

She’s still mostly when she hears the tap at her door. It’s light, and for a moment she thinks that she’s hearing things and pulls the blankets back up over her head.

. Charlie blinks and sits blearily upright. “What’s up?” she calls.

The door opens a crack. The corridor is still dark, so there’s no silhouette to clue her in to who it is; just the click of the door closing again, and footsteps, too light to be Sam’s or Dean’s, on the hard floor.

Charlie fumbles for the lamp, frowning to herself when the light from the dim bulb shows Rowena standing at the foot of her bed, her dress shimmering faintly in the gloom, her head cocked in amusement.

“Wrong room,” Charlie mumbles. “Next one down the corridor’s free.”

Rowena takes a couple steps toward her, and she jerks back instinctively—but Rowena just sits on the edge of the mattress. “What makes you think I’m lost?”

Charlie eyes her with suspicion. “Well, it’s either that or you’re doing something… nefarious.”

“Nefarious?” Rowena’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s the thanks I get for trying to do you a kindness?”

“Since when was it kind to people up in the middle of the night?”

Rowena shrugs. “You said you had a headache. I’ve been studying magic for three centuries, my dear. Wouldn’t be much of a witch if I couldn’t cure a few little aches and pains, now, would I?” And she produces a little cloth bag from somewhere on her person, proffering it in the palm of her hand.

Distractedly, Charlie notices that her fingernails are painted blood-red, just like you’d expect, but today they’re short and neat, not long pointy talons.

But that definitely doesn’t mean anything. This is Rowena, not some cute girl hanging out at the local gay bar. 

Charlie shakes herself and prods at the hex bag with a fingertip. It’s lumpy, but whatever’s in there yields to the touch. “What’s in this?” 

“Best not ask.”

Charlie makes a face, and Rowena rolls her eyes.

“Nothing that wasn’t dead already,” she says, and proffers the bag again. “Go on. Take it. Pop it under your pillow, and Bob’s your uncle.”

Dubiously, Charlie reaches out and picks the bag up between thumb and forefinger. It dangles there, looking innocuous enough. Still. 

“Why would you want to help me?” she asks. “I mean, it’s kinda out-of-character. If this was a movie I’d be yelling at me not to trust you.”

“So little faith.” Rowena shakes her head, but her eyes fasten on Charlie’s face, and after a moment, her expression turns serious—or as serious as Charlie’s ever seen it, anyway. “You think I don’t like you,” she says, as though she’s just now realizing it.

Charlie blinks at her. “Well, yeah. Last time we worked together, you spent the whole time telling me how dumb I was. I would’ve bailed if not for the Kentucky chapter of Douchebags International waiting outside.”

Rowena tuts. “Just pulling your pigtails, dear.” Without warning, she leans closer, reaching out with one hand to cup Charlie’s cheek. “You’ll have to forgive me. You were just so _good_ , I couldn’t resist playing with you a little.” A pause. Charlie can’t think of anything to day, and Rowena lets it stretch out for a long moment before she says, “Of course, there are other ways to cure a headache.” She strokes her thumb along Charlie’s cheek, and Charlie shivers at the touch but doesn’t pull away. 

This must be how a rabbit feels, hypnotized by a snake. 

Except that rabbits probably don’t feel curious about what the snake wants. Charlie’s got nothing Rowena could want. Pissing her off isn’t going to get Rowena out of here any faster. So what’s this about? Just Rowena’s way of amusing herself, because she’s in good-guy territory right now and there aren’t any puppies to kick? Is she just looking for a bit of fun to pass the time?

Charlie’s been there; she could almost understand that. 

She grimaces and ducks out from under Rowena’s hand. “You should go to bed.”

There’s a flicker of something in Rowena’s eyes. Disappointment, maybe. Then she lets her hand drop and gets to her feet. “Suit yourself,” she says, and turns toward the door, her shadowed outline swaying gently.

Back in the brewery, Charlie had _known_ that Rowena was screwing with her. She’d known she didn’t want to be a witch, even if some part of her would always be waiting for her Hogwarts letter. She’s always known that she’s good at what she does, that there’s nothing inadequate about her. And hey, there are plenty of girls out there who’d agree.

So why had Rowena been able to make her feel like a kindergartener who’d just disappointed its favourite teacher? Why had she felt like she had something to prove?

She still doesn’t know. But she does know that it’s working again. Rowena’s shrug, the way she turns away like she didn’t really expect anything more—they tug at some thread inside of Charlie that shouldn’t be tugged. They make her swallow and bite her lip, and then say, “I’m not _that_ good.”

Rowena stills, pivots to look at her, the corners of her mouth quirking triumphantly upward. “Oh, but you are,” she says. “And you could be so good at being bad. It was frustrating.”

Charlie shudders, thinking of Oz, of green fire and her own mirror image. “Don’t go there,” she says. “Not unless you wanna kill the mood for good.”

Rowena moves back toward her, and there’s the triumph again. “Oh,” she says. “So there _is_ a mood.”

Charlie looks back at her, as directly as she can in the gloom. “I, uh,” she says. “I’m not exactly sure what it is, but yeah.”

The mattress dips as Rowena sits back down—a little closer than before. “Well,” she says, her smile curving wider, “we should probably find out.”

Charlie reaches halfway toward her, then hesitates, her hand hovering in midair. She never normally feels this uncertain, this out of her depth. Not even with Gilda, and she was about ten times more supernatural than Rowena is.

But then, Gilda was just a good person who happened not to be human. Rowena’s human, but Charlie’s not exactly sure of much else about her.

Rowena meets her eyes and leans in closer, shrugging her dress off one creamy shoulder. She almost shines in the darkness, and she’s close enough that Charlie can feel the warmth of her skin. A thrill goes up her spine when Rowena takes her hand atop the bedcovers, running nimble fingers up the length of her arm and stroking at the side of her neck. Just the spot where she likes to be kissed, as if Rowena’s found it out by magic.

It’s not like Charlie’s the only one who’s ever been in this position. She’s picked up enough from talking to the guys, over the years. Sam and Cas have both sucked face with demons, plus Dean had that whole weird psychic bond thing going with God’s sister. In comparison, tumbling into bed with a witch is junior league stuff, right?

What the hell, Charlie thinks, some remnant of adrenaline from the heist lighting a small, reckless flame inside her.

“Yeah,” she says, meeting the dare in Rowena’s eyes, “we probably should,” and she leans forward and presses their lips together.

Rowena actually hesitates for half a second, like she wasn’t expecting Charlie to go for it. Then she kisses back, hard and curious, tongue flicking out like a snake’s. She tastes of berry lipstick and a faint residue of whiskey, a hint of the Men of Letters scotch that Charlie drank earlier, and that in hindsight seems like it was a really good idea. 

Like shrugging out of her t-shirt is a good idea, even though she blushes when she remembers that underneath it she’s wearing the kind of sensible white cotton panties that make her feel like she’s back in gym class, and Rowena raises a manicured eyebrow and chuckles. 

Charlie gathers herself, brazens it out like she has a dozen times before. “Hey,” she says, “it’s not the packaging that counts.” She reaches out to palm the curve of Rowena’s shoulder, pushing her dress down to reveal a fancy lace bra—of course—and the kind of small, perfect tits that she can’t resist running her hands over.

Rowena preens under the attention like a cat being petted, certain that it’s her due, her eyes sliding closed in bliss. Charlie could probably get lost all night in that sight, but then something bumps against her hand and she realizes Rowena’s wearing a necklace. 

Not exactly the kind of thing Charlie would expect on her. There’s no gold, no sparkling gemstones—just a tiny bottle on a thin leather cord, cold against her warm skin. Charlie squints at the necklace in surprise. There are dried flowers in there, she thinks, plus something white that she can’t make out in the dark, but that might be a bone.

“Nothing sinister.” Rowena’s caught her looking, and she feels herself flush. “Just a protection charm. Makes me immune to other spells.”

Huh. That actually sounds like a pretty good idea. “Could I maybe get one of those next time?”

“Next time,” Rowena promises. “But I think we’re getting a wee bit distracted here.” She shimmies out of her gold dress like she’s shedding a skin—and then she’s kneeling between Charlie’s legs, curling one hand around the back of the neck as they kiss again. Charlie barely has time to admire her, all angles and lithe muscle tone. Kinda surprising on a woman who acts like she never does anything that can’t be done in six-inch heels. Then again, there’s probably a potion for it.

It feels like there are hands everywhere, trailing down her spine, pinching at a nipple, rubbing at the seam of her pussy through her panties until they’re damp, her breath coming in sharp gasps against Rowena’s lips.

Rowena smiles into another kiss. “So. I’d say that mood’s coming along quite nicely now, wouldn’t you?”

Charlie pulls away and ducks her head to nibble at Rowena’s earlobe, feeling a flicker of gratification when she arches her back and sucks in a breath. “I’d say you should stop teasing and see if you can make it any better.”

That probably wasn’t a good idea, because all it gets her is more teasing. A slow trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, little kitten licks to the insides of her thighs, until finally, _finally_ , Rowena takes pity on her. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of Charlie’s panties and has them off in one swift motion, and she leans in and presses her mouth over Charlie’s clit.

The wet heat of it is such a relief that Charlie groans aloud. Then presses the back of her hand over her mouth, flushing with the fear that somebody will have heard.

Rowena pauses, just briefly. “Don’t fret, dear,” she says. “They’re both sleeping like the dead.”

How does she know that? Some creepy witch sense? The thought flutters briefly across Charlie’s mind—and then Rowena ducks back between her legs and resumes what she was doing, and it evaporates into nothing.

It’s a slow, steady build of heat, Rowena licking slow circles around her clit, sliding one finger back and down and up inside her, a second one joining it with no resistance. Charlie stifles another moan, tangling her fingers in Rowena’s hair and clinging on for dear life instead.

Rowena crooks her fingers forward, finding that little rough spot that makes sparks dance behind Charlie’s eyelids, and that’s all it takes. A moment later she’s coming harder than she has in years, pulsing tight around Rowena’s fingers. Rowena teases her with a couple more little licks before she pulls away, making her wriggle with the overstimulation, and she lets out a laugh that’s mostly breath.

“Man,” she says. “Something makes me think you’ve done that before.”

Rowena sits back on her heels. Her lipstick’s a little smeared now, and there’s something kinda satisfying about the sight. Proof that she’s not 100% untouchable 100% of the time—and this time, it’s because of Charlie.

“A lady never tells,” Rowena says, a note of amusement in her voice, and she dips a hand beneath the waistband of her own lace panties like she’s planning on taking care of herself.

Charlie shakes her head. “Oh, hell no.”

Her thighs are still shaking a little, but she sits upright and scoots closer, and as soon as Rowena sees what she’s doing she gives a satisfied little smile and lets Charlie take over. Charlie has to bite her lip to keep from making any more conspicuous sounds at the feeling of it, the damp heat of her even through the lace, the way Rowena’s eyes flutter closed and her breathing turns ragged when the pad of Charlie’s thumb finds her clit.

It doesn’t take much. Rowena comes off easily, tipping her head back and gasping out something too quiet for Charlie to really hear. Probably some weird British swear. 

A moment later, though, her composure’s back. She stretches out beside Charlie, blinking, eyes feline and heavy-lidded.

For a moment, Charlie hesitates. Sex was one thing; cuddling seems like more of a commitment, somehow.

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Pull the blanket up, dear. This place doesn’t exactly have state-of-the-art central heating.”

She’s right. Without her t-shirt, the chilly air makes Charlie shiver a little. Pulling the blanket up over them both, she curls into the warm line of Rowena’s body and closes her eyes.

 

\----

 

Honestly, she’s not exactly surprised when she wakes up in the morning to find her bed cold. Rowena’s had her fun, and she’s probably eager to split before Crowley gets wind of what she’s been up to. Yawning, Charlie stands up—then winces and sits back down to pull on her socks, because damn, this place does _not_ have underfloor heating.

Dressed and yawning, she pads out to the library, blinking sleepily when she sees Dean at the table. “If you already started coffee I will love you forever,” she says, turning toward the pot they keep in the corner. 

Then stops in her tracks, because Dean is sleeping. Out cold, actually, snoring like a freight train with his head on his folded arms. Plus, he’s still in last night’s clothes, and there’s a clutch of dirty whiskey glasses on the table beside him. And—

Oh.

Charlie’s heart sinks, just as Dean starts to stir. 

“Go ‘way,” he mumbles, lifting his head and cracking one eye open. Then he catches sight of her expression and sits fully upright, eyes widening. “Charlie? What’s goin’ on?”

It all makes sense, now. The fancy Scotch that Rowena drank, to prove it wasn’t enchanted. The necklace that gave her immunity to magic potions. The sex, because Charlie was the only one not sleeping like the dead. 

She doesn’t answer Dean out loud; just points wordlessly at the empty curse box sitting on the table.

 

\----

 

Half an hour later, they’re all awake and caffeinated, and Dean’s pointing the Impala in the direction of Rowena’s last known hideout. Charlie curls up in the backseat, pretending that her foul mood is down to a hangover.

(She told Sam and Dean that Rowena had persuaded her to try the Scotch, after she couldn’t sleep and ended up wandering the bunker. It felt easier than explaining.)

A couple hours into the drive, her phone vibrates in her pocket. She frowns at the unknown sender, which would be suspicious enough if everyone who has this number wasn’t already in the car with her, but opens the message.

_Sorry to love you and leave you_ , the message reads. _Catch me if you can, dear._

And despite herself, despite everything, Charlie feels a small smile steal across her face.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me? [DW](http://anactoria.dreamwidth.org) | [Tumblr](http://anactorya.tumblr.com)


End file.
